“When I hear a man preach, I like to see him act as if he were fighting bees.” – Abraham Lincoln
Airing a statement like that in front of my teenage sons is like rolling out a field of clover to the hive after a long winter. The buzzing begins immediately.
“Don’t you have to actually like being around bees to do that?”
I feel the sting of my youngest son’s unbelief. It is no secret that a bee in my personal space is a sure catalyst for some mad dashing and theatrical vocalizing. I tell him it is all about overcoming my fears (while silently registering the added benefit of not reacting like a nutcase).
“Well, I wouldn’t be afraid of bees if someone (implying his older brother) hadn’t thrown me in a nest when I was in 6th grade!”
With this subtle adjustment, the direction of their flight changes and they are off to fields of rambunctious forget-me-nots… those harrowing accounts of near death experiences and previous conquests that become legend amongst brothers. This fragrant meadow expands with each new visit and I am left feeling a bit like Horton in peril of losing his Whos in all that fluff. Eventually though, their uncanny navigation skills bring them back to the original issue at hand.
“I’d be so afraid that I’d get Africanized bees!” the older brother rants. “They are so crazy.”
Suddenly, I have a clear recollection of a documentary on killer bees that I saw as a child. An awareness as to the source of my phobia begins to emerge.
“They aren’t in Michigan!” the youngest challenges.
“They are in the United States! How do you know they won’t come to Michigan?”
The youngest hovers, not totally sure that he wants to sink his mandibles into this juicy new detail.
“What? You can’t just run away?”
“No - they just decide they don’t like you, attack and sting until you are dead!”
It takes only a split second, but the youngest strikes with lightning-like precision.
“Well, I wouldn’t be afraid. I’d just punch them… like this!” and with dramatic flair he swings his fist into the air...
just as a real-live bee flies through his personal space...
in the middle of our kitchen.
Pause.
“Like that!”
We all explode into laughter.
(There is a moral to this story that I have in mind. Any guesses? HINT: The moral of this story (like the title) is taken from a quote by another previous president.)
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